


Child of Spring

by Leni



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/pseuds/Leni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaenelle through the seasons of her life.</p><p>(Spoilers for Kaeleer's Heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child of Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/gifts).



> Written for TigrisWolf at [Comment Fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/573477.html?thread=80185381#t80185381). Prompt: **child of [season]**.

Jaenelle Angelline is the rarest of plants, born of Autumn, a seed planted in the ground and just starting to peek out through the surface. She glimpses what her destiny might be, and she's too young to make a choice. But she still listens to the whispers in the Darkness, and she goes where she is called, happily and blindly at first.

But a winged friend begs her to curtail her wanderings, and his need is so great that his wish must be granted. (He is hers, she thinks, and his comfort is also hers to give - and it must be given because she is his as well.)

The next male that matters should be too powerful to be owned, yet he almost begs it of Jaenelle, with his tenderness and his deep sadness. There's loss in him, and Jaenelle has learned of loss as well. They do well together, the teacher and his young student, and he helps her shoot out from the ground a little stronger, a little wiser.

Whatever she grows out into, his kind golden eyes promise, he will love her for it.

There's a third - for they are Blood and there must be three - and he is everything a twelve-year-old can't know how to name. But he watches her, this tiny sprout she's become, and he rejoices in her as well. _At last,_ she almost hears him purr through the Darkness, his psychic power enough to breech unconsciously into her dreams. _At last there's hope._

Hope.

Jaenelle would like to grow into that. For is there not enough power in hope?

 

 

The Queen of Ebon Askavi is whispered to be the true child of Winter.

The coven laughs when they hear that.

"I think 'High Lord of Hell' is a title intimidating enough," Karla laughs, throwing the dice and counting her points. "Winter, indeed! Hah. Nobody's seen true winter until they've been to Glacia!"

A few of the Territory Queens who've made the trip to their friend's home nod and shiver at the memory.

"They say that's the power she used when she blotted out the sun, that one time," Khardeen says, frowning at his cards. He's tempted to forfeit the game, but Morghann is staring at him with that challenging look in her eyes, and he must at least try to beat her, even if the other witches will still keep the advantage. "That her power must be the coldest in the Realms."

"They got that right," Lucivar says, from his place a little outside the group. 

He's not playing, not after he bared his teeth at Kalush for choosing a different variation and that one gesture - a teasing one, as even the other boyos would attest - almost started a brawl with Aaron. Kalush had needed to jump between her Consort and Lucivar, and everyone in the room had pointedly not laughed when she dragged her new lover outside and then brought him back ready to mumble a sheepish excuse to the Court's First Escort. Lucivar had nodded at the young man, snorted at the stupidity of young cocks, and promised - not threatened; Lucivar never bothered to _threaten_ another male - a longer work-out to get rid of the temper brought by his first catch of a lover's moon-blood. Then he had retired to a nearby sofa, and had been content to watch their game and chuckle as the boyos stayed behind.

Now he continues, in a serious voice, "The coldest, yes. But it's not the High Lord's power that backs Cat up."

The young Territory Queens and the boyos nod, perhaps each remembering an instance where they'd witnessed their Queen's power.

"We must be careful, about how we respond to these rumors," Lucivar warns them all.

A thoughtful silence descends over the room.

Then Karla narrows her eyes and peers at Lucivar. "Are you trying to distract us from Khardeen's next move?"

Lucivar lifts an innocent eyebrow, but Khardeen's low curse gives them up.

"It was close," Chaosti says in consolation, closing his eyes as if not to see his own cards.

The other boys glare at Karla. Even Morton joins in.

The Glacian Queen glances back at them and tilts up her chin proudly. "Kiss kiss?"

 

 

Witch belongs to Summer. Only her power can scorch the sickness from the land, leave it clean and ready for the next sowing season.

"Are you sure, witch-child?" Andulvar asks. He's not afraid to drift into the Darkness; after fifty centuries it feels like a duty long past. But there's something nagging at him about this configuration of the webs Jaenelle has spun. If only Saetan were here, to inspect them himself. A Black Widow would understand another's work, wouldn't he?

"Yes, Uncle," Witch answers. "This is the only way to burn out what's wrong. Hekatah's influence. Dorotea's as well. It will be gone, and none in Kaeleer must die."

Andulvar nods, and the demon-dead around him nod along with him.

"Let's win this war!" Memphis roars, and Ravenar lifts his Eyrien blade in a sign of triumph.

The other inhabitants of Hell echo the victory cry.

Andulvar approves.

It's a worthy sacrifice, to be burned under the auspices of the brightest star.

 

 

Kaeleer's Heart is the child of Spring, brought back from the brink of the Darkness and made anew. She is the result of dreamers who will hope and will wait and will _believe_ that they will not lose her. They refuse to think otherwise, for Jaenelle is their Lady. Their Queen.

Their hope.

For the first time, even the humans dream as strongly as the kindred, unwilling to lose their best friend.

But there's one more dreamer, and she insists on waking up before her time.

*You must rest some more,* Ladvarian pleads, and Kaelas' low rumble agrees with him. *Just another month on the webs,* he tries, wagging his tail hopefully and stopping at the look in Jaenelle's eyes. *Another week, at least?*

*I must go...* she says, so weak that she must speak through a thread. Ladvarian has never heard her use the Rose, and must strain to hear her right. *Daemon....*

Daemon. Daemon. Daemon!

His Lady's Consort is suffering as well, Ladvarian knows. But can't he wait until she's recovered? Can't _she_ wait to see him? *Daemon is-" Not doing fine. Not at all. *The High Lord is watching over his pup,* he says at last, for that's not a lie.

Jaenelle is not convinced, and soon Ladvarian must go to SaDiablo Hall to retrieve her love.

It's touch-and-go, for a moment there. The Sceltie must gnash his teeth together not to bite Daemon's leg, when the male draws back in horror from what's left of Jaenelle; he also reminds himself to sent Kaelas a message not to pounce on their Lady's mate. He must not be killed; Jaenelle would not understand.

If it must happen, they'll make him go and never tell her on this visit. The kindred _will_ take care of the Queen, if her Consort does not want her anymore.

But Daemon has waited for his lover for centuries. He cannot more stop breathing than to turn away from her.

*He did well,* Ladvarian acknowledges months later, when he's alone helping the Lady with a new bit of craft. They've moved from calling her shoes to prodding a rosebud into a full bloom, and there are whispers from Mrs. Beale's domain that nothing burned or melted the last time Jaenelle was at the stove. Twilight's Dawn is marvelous indeed!

And it was Daemon who nudged her to try her luck with cooking again.

*He is a good mate,* Ladvarian says, sniffing the flower at the same time, looking for any strange smells that mean the spell isn't working as it should. *He cares for you.*

*He ate the eggs you boiled,* Kaelas adds, and there's a distinct note of laughter in the cat's voice.

Ladvarian must hide a snicker, remembering the Prince's face before he bit into his meal. He'd gulped it down slowly, his face a mask of composure, and finally broke into a smile that made Jaenelle screech in joy.

"He'll have me try a stew next," Jaenelle confides, still smug in her accomplishment.

*He has high hopes,* Ladvarian remarks, letting out a little approving woof.

"Yes." Jaenelle fingers the outer petals of the rose, and suddenly it unfurls and its aroma fills the room as Twilight's Dawn has reached the perfect balance for the spell. "He has always had hope."

 

The End  
18/11/14


End file.
